Lessons
by WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot
Summary: Thirteen ficlets. Michael Corner learns you can't judge a book by its cover and Daphne Greengrass learns to trust. Canon-compliant. Originally posted on Livejournal for the Harry Potter Rare Pairs Shorts community. NOW COMPLETE!
1. i: the beautiful side of evil

A story told in thirteen ficlets, in which Michael Corner learns to love unconditionally and Daphne Greengrass learns to trust.

**A/N:** T for strong language and for non-explicit sexual situations in later chapters. If there are any readers familiar with my _**Daphne Greengrass and the 6th Year From Hell**_ and _**Daphne Greengrass and the 7th Year From Hell**_ series, this is a slightly different take on Michael and Daphne's relationship. This is my attempt to write a more canon-compliant version of how they might have gotten together. I've kept their personalities similar to what I've written in that story. Reprinted from my LiveJournal series, for the HP Rare Pairs Shorts community.

I own nothing.

* * *

**i. the beautiful side of evil**

It is the Sorting Feast of his sixth year.

And for reasons unbeknownst to him, Michael Corner's eyes scan the next table over in the Great Hall. They rest on one particular spot on the table; a girl sitting far away from the other Slytherins, who are high-fiving and cheering Draco Malfoy for doing something . . .

_Most certainly evil!_

He taps his fork absent-mindedly on his pumpkin juice goblet in front of him. He moves his head to the rhythm to the last wizard pop song he heard on the wireless earlier that day.

"_There's magic in the air._"

"_And I feel it every time you're near . . . me._"

"_Your heart has cast its spell._"

"_And because of you I fell--_"

"Oh, Mikey! I love it when you sing to me!"

Michael snaps out of his trance and glares at Terry Boot, who flutters his eyes at him and sighs in a horrible, overly sappy manner.

He throws a roll at his supposed best friend. "'M not singing to you, you arse!"

"Maybe not, but I can't help but notice you staring off, all googly-eyed at," he hacks a lung, "them," Terry points towards the Slytherin table, "and you're singing wizard love songs. So," he flourishes his hand, "which one?"

"Which one _what_?"

"Which of the lovely snakes over there has somehow charmed you?"

Michael scrunches his face in disgust. "_Ew_! Those are Slytherins over there!"

"Well?" Terry winces. "I'm not saying you've got good taste or anything." He looks at the table with a snort. "But y'are single, mate. And I can't fault you for a little pity shag!"

"_Terry_!" Padma Patil glowers at him. "I'm eating over here!"

He smiles apologetically. "Er, sorry, Paddy."

"I _hate_ it when you call me Paddy." She returns to her meal.

"I'm not looking for a pity shag!" Michael whispers harshly to his friend.

"Well, what are you looking for, then?"

Instead of replying to the prat, he turns back to the table and finds the spot he was so focused on earlier. Her dark hair falls in front of her face, but he can just make out the look of annoyance, of sneering disgust as she regards her housemates sitting down not a few feet from her. She goes back to her food and she talks to no one. Nor do any of the other Slytherins make any moves to talk to her.

She sits silently, eating her meal and every once in a while, she brushes away the hair from her face and he gets a small glimpse of her strong features.

Michael can't help but wonder why she sits so far away from the rest of her House. And he can't help but think she's really pretty, but only partly because she sits so far away from the other Slytherins.


	2. ii: ricochet

**Author's Notes:** T for strong language and for non-explicit sexual situations in later chapters.

If there are any readers familiar with my _**Daphne Greengrass and the 6th Year From Hell**_ and _**. . . 7th Year From Hell**_ series, this is a slightly different take on Michael and Daphne's relationship. This is more canon-compliant. Their personalities are similar to what I've written in that story. But in the Lessons series, Daphne was never a member of the DA, and she does have a sister, whom you will meet very soon.

* * *

**ii. ricochet**

"_Move over_!"

Michael Corner pulls up his book bag, as Daphne Greengrass — quite inelegantly and rather impolitely — shoves her way past his left shoulder and into Vector's classroom for their first day of N.E.W.T.-level Advanced Arithmancy.

He wonders exactly why he was so drawn to her during the Sorting Feast.

"Y' don't have to be so rude about it," he mutters and glares at her.

She turns back around and fixes a steely gaze at him. "You were in_ my_ way! So sorry that I hurt your precious feelings." She smirks and flips her head around, swinging her dark hair right in his face and she saunters into the classroom.

"What in the world—" Michael gestures angrily at Daphne but turns to Anthony Goldstein. "Tony, what the hell did I say to justify that?"

"Mike, she's a Slytherin." Anthony just shakes his head and starts walking into the classroom. "They're born with that _sparkling personality_." He shakes his head

"Not to mention the Dark Mark," Michael snorts. "Stupid, evil prats!"

Anthony is just about to agree, when Daphne bumps her hip right smack into a corner of a desk . . . very hard.

"_Ow_! Sonofab—"

Michael chuckles as she rubs her hip. She turns around and narrows her eyes at him.

"So sorry . . . did I hurt your precious feelings." He returns her smirk from earlier. She simply stares at him like she's throwing daggers with her eyes.

She rubs her now-sore hip and is about to say something . . . but she huffs instead, unable to come back with a snappy retort.

Michael cannot resist getting the last word in. He never can.

"What's the matter? _Snake_ got your tongue?" And simply because his mouth acts quicker than his brain, he finishes with a lopsided grin, "I know I've got that effect on girls."  

He can barely believe the words have rolled off of his tongue because it sounds rather like he's flirting with the girl.

_Impossible_!

Anthony just gapes at him like a goldfish. Apparently, he too thinks Michael is flirting with the rather sullen Slytherin.

Daphne just stares at him. To his surprise, her cheeks are coloring very slowly. And he ignores the small jolts shooting back and forth in his guts as he continues looking at her, or this weird, somewhat shaky feeling that he's getting by staring directly into her eyes.


	3. iii: elusive

**A/N: **I own nothing. Reprinted from my LiveJournal Harry Potter Rare Pairs Shorts project. A more canon-compliant version of Michael Corner and Daphne Greengrass if they had gotten together sixth year.

* * *

**iii. elusive**

"I _hate_ Vector!" Michael huffs as he walks with Anthony towards the Great Hall. "A bloody 'D' on a fucking prognostication chart." He turns around and yells at the classroom they just vacated. "_When she doesn't even know what's going to happen in the future_!"

Anthony merely rolls his eyes at his friend. "Exactly how much time did you put into this assignment?"

Michael balls up the parchment and shoves it deep into his book bag, muttering something that sounds an awful lot like, " . . . a couple of hours." He needs to remember not bring up stuff like grades and how much effort he puts into his work around Anthony, because he will always kick Michael's arse ten different ways to Sunday in their lessons.

Anthony had, of course, managed an "Excellent-Plus" on the same assignment.

He hears a very loud snort behind him, and both boys turn around—

It is Daphne Greengrass, whom Vector singled out, as well as Hermione Granger, as the only two students who managed to make "Oustandings" on their pre-term assignments.

"I have _no idea_ how I'm going to top this," she flicks at her scroll in an exaggeratedly humble tone. "And it only took me a week to perfect it!"

Michael narrows his eyes at her and pursed his lips together. "Some of us have a life during the holidays, and we're too busy to worry about five hundred years into the future . . . when we're not even gonna _be_ here in five hundred years!"

"And some of us now have an 'O' under our belts. If I didn't do charts for two weeks, I could still finish out the month with an 'Acceptable' average!" She nods her head, gesturing to the blazon on his robes. "Perhaps _I_ should've been in Ravenclaw, hm?" She cocks her eyebrow at him in an impossibly cocky and arrogant way, and he can feel his temperature rising.

"Perhaps, if you were in Ravenclaw, _you_ would actually have friends and you wouldn't sit all by yourself at meals!"

She stops. He stops too, because he can't believe he just said that. But worse, it's her face that nearly causes his stomach to plummet and fall out of his body.

Daphne pales, but her mouth sets in a firm line and her brow creases dangerously. Despite all the hardness in her face, though, Michael can see her eyes getting more and more watery.

"P-perhaps, i-if you . . . sh-_shit_!" Her hand flies up and covers her mouth and Michael shuts his eyes as he hears a sob escape from her. She runs away from the boys and Michael turns, his eyes following her down the hall.

Anthony opens his mouth — and Michael holds up a hand to stop him.

"I don't want to hear about what an awful person I am. I – _know_."

"I can't believe you just made me feel sorry for a Slytherin, Mike."

He sighs and glances over at his friend. "I'll fix this."

* * *

He looks around for her at dinner and once he finds her, he doesn't stop watching her.

True, Michael thinks, it's a bit stalkerish, but he's got to find a way to make this . . . this . . .

_Whatever_ this is inside of him go away.

When Daphne gets up to leave the Great Hall, he bolts off of his bench and runs to catch up with her graceless steps.

"Daphne!"

Michael shocks himself that he doesn't use her last name. Daphne turns, just as shocked that he used her proper first name.

He feels a pang of guilt course through him; her eyes are really blood shot. He can barely look at her, so he bows his head for a moment.

"I, uh . . . I'm—"

"Just spit it out, all right?"

Michael can hear the muffled and moist sound in her voice and it's making him feel worse.

"I'm sorry for what I said to you earlier." He looks back up at the girl and his heart gives a little skip. Daphne's face softens.

She shoulders her bookbag more for a little more support. "Well, I'm glad." She speaks in clipped tones but her voice is as soft as her expression.

"Er, oh-okay?"

"You _were_ rude to me, y'know."

"Yeah. That's why I apologized."

"'S'not my fault you suck so badly at Arithmancy."

"Sweet Merlin!" Michael grunts. "I apologized because I felt awful for what I said to you, and you're insulting me now—"

He pauses. She grits her teeth and scrunches her face. She bites her lower lip too and she keeps fidgeting.

"S-sorry," she says quietly. "I tend to take things too far sometimes." Daphne looks back up at him, and he can feel that anger that had been increasing inside of him slowly simmer back down. She chuckles a little, but it's a sad sound.

"It's okay." He extends his hand to her. "Truce?"

She never takes her eyes off of his face. She nods and takes his hand. "Truce."

Michael hopes that she somehow didn't feel the shock he did when her hand touched his.

She lets go and walks away, but stops walking and turns back around to face him.

"Do you want help?"

"Help?"

She rolls her eyes, but her lips press together, trying to stifle a small smile. "With Arithmancy. I'm . . . er, good at it. But I-I know your friend's really good at it too, so . . . nevermind—"

"No, no. Feel free to try to teach me some of that shite." He chuckles. "Tony's tried but it's kinda hard learning stuff from your friends."

"Okay," she nods. "Are you free tomorrow?"

He nods in response. "Free period after lunch."

"Library?"

"Fine by me."

"Well," she nods one more time. "Tomorrow then."

And he watches her leave with an odd feeling that he can't quite pin down.


	4. iv: don't say yes

**Author's Notes:** T for strong language and for non-explicit sexual situations in later chapters. A special thanks to respitechristopher and Sara Winters for their love of Daria Morgendorffer, as it sort of inspired the dynamic between Daphne and Astoria in this part. I own nothing.

* * *

**iv. don't say yes**

"Don't say it!"

Michael raises his eyebrow at Daphne's semi-winking stare.

"But—"

"_Don't_, Mikey."

"Oi! Can this 'Mikey' business," he says, with a smirk. She bites her lip, and Michael can't help but think she's stifling a smile.

He wrinkles his nose at her, and he spits out his answer. "Yes!"

"_No_! No, no . . . a thousand times no!" Daphne sighs, exasperated but laughing. She throws her head back and slouches in her chair at their library table. She starts hitting her head with her book lightly. Michael can't help but smile — after all, he's the one who's driven her to this playful madness.

"How long have we been here now?" Daphne rubs her eyes, still grinning.

Michael checks the hovering hourglass the library uses to keep time. "It's only been two hours."

She sits back up. "Well, it feels like eight." She glares at him, but in a teasing manner. "And how many weeks have we been meeting now?"

"Only three."

She breathes out and shakes her head, but she continues to smirk. "I'll speak slower this time, and maybe — just _maybe_ — the relevance of the number seven in the Agrippan and Chaldean methods will finally sink into that thick skull of yours!" And she taps at his head, his shaggy hair shaking as she does so.

He laughs in earnest.

"Perhaps I'm a lost cause," he says, swatting at her hand and grinning. "I'm too much of a creative thinker for Arithmancy!" He crosses his arms and he bows his head. "I defer to your mental precision."

Daphne gives him a flat look, but the corners of her mouth twitch ever so slightly.

"Okay, so, once again. The Agrippan Method uses a number set—"

"_Daphne_!"

She turns around as a girl who shares her eyes, but who's taller, thinner, and more polished in appearance than Daphne, strides gracefully towards their table.

"Astoria? What do you need?" Her voice has a sharp edge to it. "And keep your voice down. Pince'll have our heads!"

"Father sent us letters." Astoria ignores Daphne's command entirely; she speaks in the same volume as before. "Yours came with mine."

Daphne frowns. "Why didn't he just send one to me directly?"

"How would I know?" Astoria huffs. Michael thinks she looks increasingly haughty. "I'm not a mind reader!" She takes one look at Michael and her nostrils flare slightly. "Can I ask what you're doing here, Daphne?"

Michael watches as she narrows her eyes. "We're studying. Now, can you _go away_?"

Astoria hisses and spins around, reminding Michael an awful lot of Daphne that first day just outside the Arithmancy classroom. "You two sisters, huh?"

Daphne glares at him and opens the letter. She reads it for a few moments, then sneers, and then crumples it into a little ball and tosses it into her bag.

 "Bad news?"

Michael winces as Daphne stares at him, her eyes sharp and angry. However, her face falls after a moment. "Just more about how I'm not living up to the Greengrass name and legacy." She gives him a rueful little grin and chuckles quietly. "I'm the big family disappointment."

He leans forward. "I'm sorry. Uh, do you . . . well," he screws his face up, "need to talk?"

Daphne pauses. And then she takes a breath. "It's just that I'm never really on the same page as the rest of them."

"Really?"

She nods. "They're _very_ pro-pure-blood, anti- . . . well, anything else. I'm not really into all that shit. They want me to marry a nice pure-blood wizard." She smirks. "I keep telling them I'm a lesbian—"

"You-you're a . . . you're n-not, though, right?"

Michael hates it when he's nervous and he trips over his tongue.

"Of course not! I just like seeing the looks on their faces when I say it. That's why I've got a horribly nasty mouth too. Mother says I need to talk more like a proper witch. I tell her to fuck off."

He chortles at her very matter-of-fact tone.

 "But they want me to marry pure and not taint our bloodlines." She regards him, steadily, even as her face colors. "I'd rather not be fussed about it. Pure-blood's fine, but I'm not ruling out others." She turns her head towards the direction Astoria walked and hums sadly. "She used to be better, y'know. When she was younger. More carefree. More fun. Astoria got to Hogwarts, and it's been all about her image, associating with the right people, her appearance. Lately, she just seems to be all about Mummy and Daddy's approval." Her eyes drop to the floor.

"So you're okay with Muggle-borns?"

Daphne shrugs. "Don't really see the big deal about them."  

"Er," and suddenly, Michael isn't sure whether he wanted to know the answer to the question, but he asks anyway. "What about Harry Potter?"

She rolls her eyes and snorts again. "Please! If I ever saw an idiot with a knack for getting themselves in trouble, it's Potter."

Michael whistles. "Tell me how you really feel."

"Do you believe him?" 

He looks at her and nods. "I do."

"W-were you . . ." she speaks haltingly, as if she doesn't really want to know, but she continues to speak, "were you a part of that club last year . . . y'know? The defense club—"

"Well," he shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, "I _studied_ defense with some friends. Is that what you mean?"

Daphne nods but regards him carefully, as if she knows he's holding back.


	5. v: a smoky haze

**Character Pairing:** Michael Corner/Daphne Greengrass

**Prompt:** Set Thirteen v. a smoky haze (for the LJ community RarePair Shorts)

**Rating:** T for strong language and sexual situations in later sections

**Summary:** 13 ficlets, in which Michael Corner learns to love unconditionally and Daphne Greengrass learns to trust.

**Author's Notes:** T for strong language and for non-explicit sexual situations in later chapters. This is a more canon-compliant (not to mention _shorter!_) take from me on Daphne Greengrass and Michael Corner. It'll explore just how these two crazy kids could actually fall in love with each other.

* * *

**v. a smoky haze**

One thing Michael Corner hates is chasing after a girl.

He didn't run after Ginny Weasley after that pathetic Ravenclaw-Gryffindor match. He had pushed her away with his own unique brand of boyish pride and sullenness. He had finally acknowledged to himself that relationship wasn't really going anywhere.

He didn't pursue Cho Chang during the summer holiday. When her letters had expressed little more than the obligatory greeting and small talk, Michael simply "forgot" to write back. And then, her messages had stopped coming. After all, one couldn't snog at such long distances. And there really wasn't much for them to talk about without the snogging to fill in the gaps.

But today, he chases after Daphne Greengrass -- _literally_. All the way to the greenhouses on one foggy October morning. And with each step, he realizes that he has been pursuing her, for whatever reasons, since the start of term.

He has no idea what to make of that observation.

"Daphne!" He's panting. "Wait!"

She turns and gives him a very funny look. "How long have you been running?"

"S- . . . sin- . . ." He holds up a finger and bends all the way over, trying to catch his breath. "_Since . . . up . . . there_!" He points to the castle, still panting.

She waits for a few moments and he lifts his head. She's regarding him with a very amused expression. "Well? Out with it!"

Feeling his breath slow down, Michael stands up. "Wh-what are you doing next Saturday?"

She flashes him a grin that is both sly and surprised. "_Hogsmeade_ Saturday?"

"Uh-huh." He watches her as she scrunches up her face and looks at him suspiciously.

"Why?"

Michael shuts his eyes. "Because . . . dammit!" He chuckles in resignation. "You were right."

He's not really all that upset that he lost their bet, because it means he now has an excuse to ask her to go with him to Hogsmeade. He has an excuse to buy her a butterbeer.

And he might even have an excuse to—

"Wait! Wait . . . can you say that one more time. Please?" She pushes her ear towards him and a smile breaks across her face. "Into my good ear."

"Are most Slytherins this insufferable?" He grins and shakes his head.

"Well, _most_ Slytherins wouldn't give you the time of day. I took pity on you."

"Right . . ." he drawls. "So, you were right about Vector wanting us to use the Agrippan Model. I'm thanking you for insisting I include it in my assignment."

"And—"

He rolls his eyes. "I have only you to thank for getting an 'Acceptable' on the last chart. So, I owe you a drink at the Three Broomsticks. Happy now?"

"Excessively!" She bats her eyes and twirls around. She starts walking towards the greenhouses.

"Invitation accepted!" She shouts at him over her shoulder, and Michael doesn't stop watching her walk away until she passes through the mist.

* * *

Hogsmeade does not go quite as he had planned.

First, there were the boarded-up shops, like Zonko's. Michael winces as he observes the shops all along Hogsmeade. Windows have boards covering them up and so many doors are closed and locked. The street seems so dull and grey.

"Looks like this is going to be a cheerful outing." He tries to keep his voice light, but Daphne looks at him skeptically.

Then there were the scandalized looks on people's faces as he and Daphne walked through Hogsmeade. For him, it's not an issue; they do study together after all. However, the more Michael ponders it, he realizes that he can't remember ever seeing a Slytherin walking and talking with a student who didn't also belong to Slytherin House.

It just wasn't done.

Particularly in these troubled times.

"People're whispering about us—"

"Since when do you care what they say?" Michael asks her, taking note of her worried expression. Daphne stares at him indignantly.

They make it to Three Broomsticks and they take a seat at a table. Michael gets them two butterbeers and Daphne sips hers, moving her eyes all over the pub. Many are watching them, and they regard Daphne with suspicion and coldness.

"You're not enjoying this, are you?"

"'M having fun." But she sounds distracted.

After a few moments of watching her drink nervously, Michael takes one last, huge gulp of his butterbeer and bangs the bottle down on the table. "Let's get out of here."

"Wh-what?"

"You." He points at her. "Finish up. Well go on!"

 She shoots a poisonous glare at him, gulps down the last of her butterbeer, and follows him out of the tavern.

"What the _hell_?" They turn a corner and happen upon a secluded spot just behind the building. "I was having fun!"

He stares at her in disbelief. "I've seen you have more fun doing Arithmancy. You care about what they think?"

She does not look at him. "N-no. Not really."

Michael chews on his lower lip. "Why're you acting all nervous and twitchy?"

She keeps her eyes lowered. "Just . . . it didn't bother me until now."

"What d'ya mean, 'until now'?"

She gestures at him. "It's being with you that made it worse!"

"_Me_? You're blaming how you're feeling on me?" Michael can feel his anger rising.

"Yeah! It wouldn't have bothered me if you hadn't been there!" Daphne's eyes widen and she slams her hand over her mouth.

And the anger that had been building suddenly dissipates. "If _I_ hadn't been there?" he echoes weakly.

They say nothing for a few moments and their eyes remain locked on each other. Michael is not about to break this moment. He thinks if it lasts just a little longer—

Daphne is the first to blink. "I'm going back up to Hogwarts." She does not wait for an answer; she merely turns and walks away.  

Michael watches her leave, _again_, and although he wants to feel confused about what Daphne just said, he knows that something just changed between them.


	6. vi: like a hole in the ground

**Author's Notes:** T for strong language and for non-explicit sexual situations in later chapters. I own nothing. This story is posted on my LiveJournal for the Harry Potter Rare Pairs Shorts community. It's a more canon-compliant take from me on Daphne Greengrass and Michael Corner. I just wanted to write something that might show how these two crazy kids could actually fall in love that followed canon a little bit more than I do in _**Daphne Greengrass and the 7th Year From Hell**_.

* * *

**vi. like a hole in the ground**

"So, Katie Bell's out for at least two games according to Parvati."

"Who's replacing her?" Terry asks Padma.

"Dean Thomas."

Sean Bradley snorts arrogantly. "Thomas's never played the game. He'll be a lightweight. Hell, even Cadwallader and Smith'll be able to take him. And forget Slytherin's Chasers! Tomorrow's game, mark my words — Vaisey and Warrington'll destroy him."

"_Oi_! What are we? Hippogriff liver?" Mandy Brocklehurst huffs. "Morag and I earned our Chaser spots three years ago! We'll _eat_ Thomas for breakfast!"

"Whoa! Easy Brock . . ." Terrry diffuses the volatile gender war that's brewing over Quidditch. "Hey Mike . . . whaddya—?" Terry nudges him. "Er, Mike?"

He's barely listening. Instead, his eyes are firmly focused — as they have been for the past few weeks since their spectacularly confusing Hogsmeade . . .

Well, it hadn't been a date; it had ended not with a goodbye snog but with Daphne Greengrass blurting out—

"_It wouldn't have bothered me if you hadn't been there!_"

And she had walked away with no other explanation. And she hadn't spoken to him since.

Michael thinks about her words over and over again. He can't help but think that something's there, inside of her, and whatever it is likes him and wants him, but it's hidden and buried deep within her and there's all this other shit in the way.

Like the fact that she's a Slytherin and he's not. Like whatever her family's expectations are and he doesn't fit them. Like . . . like—

A roll hits Michael's head.

"Hey!"

"I hate it when you ignore me," Terry pouts.

Michael glares at him. "You can be such a _girl_ sometimes Boot."

"Watch it, Corner," Padma and Mandy glower furiously at him.

Terry winces. "Well, exactly what's so bloody important that you're ignoring Quidditch of all things?" His eyes drift to where Michael had been staring so intently. "Oh, for the love of Rowena's diadem, Mike! _Come on_!"

"What?"

"A _Slytherin_?" He grunts. "If you didn't need a good shag, I'd be takin' the piss outta ya for bein' desperate!"

Michael throws his serviette at him. "It's not just about that, Dung-for-Brains!" he exclaims, fuming.

"Then, what's it ab- . . . oh! All right . . . gotcha!"

He hates it when Terry gets that look like he's just figured something out. Michael teases him that he doesn't get that look often, but when he does, all bets are off.

"You've really got it bad, mate. Y'know that?"

Michael just looks at him. "I've got _what_ bad?"

"You're pining away for her." 

"Does Michael Corner have a crush, Terry?" Mandy leans over with a very evil grin on her face. As does Padma.

Michael wonders if anyone would notice if he just _Avada Kedavra'd_ Terry. Right here, right now.

"I don't think it's just a 'crush'," Terry's eyes narrow and Michael hates that smug, wicked grin plastered on his face. "I think Michael's in _wuv_!"

"Seriously Boot . . . one more word, and I'll tell them about the lucky lady whose name you were yelling out in the showers yesterday."

Michael grins as Terry glares at him and Mandy and Padma's attentions shift to pestering his friend about that little fact. He looks back over at the Slytherin table and his heart pounds as Daphne stands and makes to leave the Great Hall. Without another word, he jumps up and walks in long, fast strides to catch her while trying to make it look like he's _not_ trying to catch her.

It's harder than it looks, but he keeps thinking about what she said in Hogmeade—

"_It wouldn't have bothered me if you hadn't been there!_"

He reaches her and grabs her elbow.

She turns around. "M-Michael . . . what do you- . . ."

She doesn't finish what she's about to say because he pulls her into an empty classroom and shuts and locks the door.

Daphne stares at him angrily. "Explain, please! Before I start yelling my head off."

Michael nostrils flare. He's determined to get this out in the open. "What did you mean? '_It wouldn't have bothered me if you hadn't been there!_'"

"I've got no idea what you're on—"

"Hogsmeade. Before you walked away. Those were your words."  Daphne's face grows very red. She indicates no other feeling or emotion, though. She still seems to be very angry and confused.

_She just keeps digging herself in, deeper and deeper . . . _

He walks to her. "The problem is, I can't get it out of my head. At least, not until you tell me why you said it."

Daphne scratches her elbow, but she maintains her angry countenance. "I-I don't even remember saying—"

"You remember, Daphne—"

"Don't say my name!"

"—or else you wouldn't be blushing. And now you're getting more and more red." He's now standing very close to her and he can hear her breath speeding up just a little bit.

"What should I call you, then? _Miss_ Greengrass?" Michael has never heard his voice so . . . so bloody _deep_, and he's wondering just where the hell that's coming from. But it's affecting her even though she clearly doesn't want it to, so he continues doing it.

"Wh-what the hell's happening to your, uh . . . voice?" She tries to make it sound like an insult, but she's nervous and thrown off of her game. Michael knows exactly why; he's standing so close to her that their noses almost touch.

"You're nervous, aren't you?"

"Don't . . . get . . . nervous."

Michael keeps his eyes on her. His hand trembles as he touches her arm and she's breathing very quickly. Almost reflexively, her mouth opens like she's about to say something, and Michael realizes this is _it_. There's no better opportunity.

He kisses her.

She's shocked. She gasps in surprise at first. But a moment passes and Michael's still kissing her. He continues kissing her and he brings his arms up around her body. His hands are in her hair. He touches her face. He hears things drop to the floor and he knows it's her book bag because she's putting her arms around him, unencumbered by anything heavy.


	7. vii: tepid

**A/N: **The formulation of the Quidditch/sex analogy comes courtesy of respitechristopher and the whole Sober Universe forum. Because when work gets rough, nothing is funnier than thinking about how teenagers in the wizarding world might talk about S-E-X. Some intense snogging and teenage petting, but I don't think it's physically graphic to necessitate an R rating.

**Summary:** 13 ficlets, in which Michael Corner learns you can't judge a book by its cover and Daphne Greengrass learns to trust.

* * *

**vii. tepid**

Michael Corner realizes that secret relationships are quite exciting. The sneaking around into broom closets and empty classrooms, the thrill of fear from almost being caught with Daphne Greengrass wrapped around him.

It's been going on for almost two months now, but — _Sweet Merlin_! — it never gets boring.

However, Michael can't help but feel guilty. Every time he sees Terry and Anthony, it reminds him that he hasn't told them about his new relationship. And the guilt sinks in deeper and deeper. So he puts off telling them because he doesn't want to witness their anger at him . . . even though the longer he puts it off, the more they'll be furious.

However, this is not what he's currently thinking about.

He leans against a desk in an unused classroom. He stands as Daphne sits on the wood surface, her legs pressed against his hips. She lengthens them and closes them around his lower back. She tugs on and loosens his tie, pulling him closer to her and Michael feels her fingers winding through his own shaggy hair and his hands suddenly become very wild. His left takes a chance to move up her thigh a tad bit higher than the last time they were together. His right finds the bottom of her slightly wrinkled shirt and touches the warm soft skin below.

They break apart, both teenagers breathing very hard.

"You're being rather bold today, Corner."

Michael's head falls onto her shoulder. "Y-yeah . . . er, sorry."

She smirks and laughs, but it's a very pleasant sound. Not to mention wicked _and_ sexy. "Would you like to play a little longer?"

Michael cocks his eyebrow, but he hopes he sounds nonchalant. "What do you mean?"

He also hopes that she can't somehow feel anything below his waistline, even though they are so close. Because, right now, the state of things down _there_ has suddenly gotten a little harder to ignore—

She pulls on his tie and whispers in his ear. "Move you _left_ hand up."

Michael swallows, but he complies. There's no way he won't do anything right now, especially if she's willing.

"Put it on my inner thigh, Michael." 

His eyes bulge out and he's lost his breath. But he's not saying "no" right now — because that would just be stupid.

So he moves his hand, trying to focus on _anything_ on Daphne Greengrass from the neck up.

Her breath catches as he lets his hand slide up just a little more and, in a bold move from her, she widens her legs. He falls forward a bit, and the tips of his fingers graze cloth.

_Her knickers!_

She lets out a gasp. He's about to back off when she pulls on his tie.

"Leave it." 

A small, gurgle escapes from his throat.

"Have you ever done this before?"

Michael, somehow, manages to shake his head.

"Really?" A little grin of disbelief grows on her face.

"J-just . . . uh . . . under-the-shirt . . . a little—"

"You've managed to _barely_ score through the center hoop then?"

"U-uh-huh . . . just . . . well, not r-really—"

"But you've never 'caught the Snitch'?"

Michael is very close to losing it now. He shakes his head.

Daphne presses her lips against his for a very long kiss. She draws him forward slightly and her lips reach his ears.

"_Touch me_."

Michael's breath shakes and shudders and hers does the same and she exhales, tickling his ears and neck with warm air, as his hand fulfills her wishes.

* * *

They are snogging and "exploring" . . . but this time, Michael knows Daphne's not here.

She is distracted and indifferent to his ministrations. She's not really into this, and he doesn't know why.

"Hey," he says as he lifts his head up and looks at her. She opens her eyes slowly and furrows her brow.

"You're not here."

Daphne snorts softly and her mouth tweaks. "I'm very much here . . . _your hand's_ definitely here. Going up my shirt and all—"

Michael quickly retracts his hand although he doesn't really want to. "Yeah, but you're all distant. You've got something on your mind . . ."

She flicks at the bottom on his shirt, twisting it between her fingers. She swallows and she avoids looking at him. "Just . . . don't want to go home this time."

Michael can't help but smile. "Well, I'm not staying here myself. Don't worry, though. I'll definitely write—"

Daphne flashes him a flatly annoyed look. "My parents are holding a Christmas Ball for Astoria and me."

He grins, thinking he didn't hear right. "You're upset because you're having a party being thrown in your honor?"

She rolls her eyes, but her face betrays a resignation to some inevitable outcome. "Other years, it's just for family and old friends of my parents. However, I have the distinct privilege of being the first of the Greengrass daughters to come of age. So, they'll dress me up like a good little monkey and I'll be shoved this way and that," she says, but her voice remains emotionless. "I'll meet some eligible pure-bloods who all have Gringotts' accounts of equal or greater value than ours."

Michael ignores his nervous breath. "But I thought they weren't forcing you into anything—"

Daphne shakes her head. "They're not, and they _can't_ but," she stands up and straightens out her clothes, "they _can_ ban me from the house and remove my name from our vaults." She re-buttons her blouse.

She looks at him and Michael studies her. Daphne seems sad and she stares into the space just next to him, as if there's some lingering thought that she wants to give voice and form to, or some caveat, or some "_but_ . . ." that's hovering right on the tip of her tongue.

However, she rearranges her face and she flashes him an expression that's just a little arrogant and haughty. "Well, don't know about you, but it's late." Daphne gives him a nod, and turns to walk out of the classroom.

"Wait!" Michael stands up and he reaches out but grabs nothing.

Daphne stops. She turns, but it causes her to bump right into an errant desk corner. "_Fuck_!" She sucks in a breath and rubs her hip. "Bugger that smarts!"

It's enough to knock the smugness right off her face.

"What would happen if I went to this thing?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "You want to go?"

Michael shrugs. "Well, would they welcome me with open arms?"

Daphne bites her lip and he can see the right side of her mouth pull upwards. It's the look she gets when she's thinking through something. But she says not a word, and instead turns towards the door.

Just as she's about to leave, Daphne turns back around. "I can't say my parents would be all that happy about you showing up, but you might want to talk to your friend . . . Anthony is his name?"

Michael looks at her confused.

"After all, they sent his invitation just last week." And she turns and walks away, leaving Michael gaping in her wake.


	8. viii: the most amazing sight

**A/N: **I own nothing. Rated T for some language and intense snogging, but not anything physically graphic. The remaining chapters will be told in Daphne's POV.

Thank you so much to all my reviewers, alerters, and _favoriters_ for this story. I'm really glad that you're enjoying this.

* * *

**viii. the most amazing sight**

Daphne sighs. The day had not started out well—

"_Virgil," Queenie Greengrass — a proper woman of refined dress and manners — sets her fork down next to her plate, her just-cracked soft-boiled egg in front of her, yolk running down the white shell, and an asparagus spear hovering over the yellow. "That is a shame about the Malfoys. Obviously, they won't be able to make the festivities tonight."_

_Her father, Virgil Greengrass, a tall, dark, and stern figure, speaks in a severe tone. "Sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Once we've restored order, and have correct the mistakes of the past, wizards like the Malfoys will be given their rightful place back in society. It's simply a matter of time."_

_Queenie turns her attentions to her daughters, asking about the ball. "Daphne, I think you might find Healer Goldstein's son a remarkable young wizard. Do you know him? He's your age. A Ravenclaw too, I might add."_

_She doesn't wait for an answer. "He comes from good stock and I'm told he has aspirations to become a Healer as well." She purses her lips together. "The only troubling rumor I've heard about him is that he has some rather unfortunate associates at your school. A couple of _those_," her nose wrinkles in disgust, "with Mudbloods in their families . . ." _

Daphne returns to the present and looks out at the sea of colored jewels and swirling fabrics. House-elves walk in cleaner tea towels than what they normally wear, Levitating trays of hors d'oeuvres and wine, for they have much company tonight at Greengrass Estate.

_Mother wouldn't want anyone thinking we don't take care of our trash._

She longs for a little more excitement in the evening, like when she heard what sounded like a couple of small explosions on the top floors.

The house-elves, however, had seen nothing.

She feels a pit in her stomach, and she can't give definition to it. Her body doesn't feel natural as she wears full-length lavender dress robes that clinch and cling to her; she feels less like a girl and more like a fancy little bauble in a room full of magpies.

But none of them are sweeping in to pick her up for their collections.

Astoria is on the other side of the room, talking to Blaise Zabini, Frederick Montague and Walter Vaisey, the star of the Slytherin Quidditch team, not to mention one of the few honest players on the House team. She curls her lip in disdain as she spies Professor Slughorn at her house talking to old Healer Aloysius Reddy and his grandson, Harold, a seventh-year Ravenclaw.

_Bastard ignores me in his Potions classes, but will drop everything to attend these meat markets?_

She hopes that Slughorn is not on her parents' list as one of the eligible wizards for her, because while she wouldn't mind getting to know Snape a little bit better, she'll draw the line at wizards who're as old as dirt.

She's deep in thought when a wizard approaches her. She silently curses that she didn't look stand-offish enough, but she smirks, intrigued, as she spies his face.

"Are you Anthony Goldstein?"

"Uh, y-yeah, I am." He holds out a shaky hand. "D-do you want to dance?"

Daphne gives him a placating, humoring smile and takes his hand.

They move along, both quite inelegantly, and Daphne winces as Anthony steps on her foot several times. She's got absolutely no idea how to move, and she's trying to refrain from swearing, but _fuc—_

It's really hard.

"Mike's here."

Daphne snaps her head towards him. She knows she's blushing and her heart's beating very fast but she maintains a distracted, distant air. "_Really_? Interesting."

Anthony peers at her curiously. "Do you want to know where he is?"

Daphne looks at him carefully. "Do you _want_ to tell me?"

Anthony huffs and rolls his eyes. "Not really, but I can't help it if my friend's gone mental over a bloody _Slytherin_." Anthony turns her around, shuffling his feet in a very awkward manner, and gestures with his head upstairs. "He's in your room."

 Daphne's eyes widen. "How in the world did—?"

He shrugs casually. "Your family took down your wards for the party. I came in, found your room, then left and Side-Along Apparated with him."

Daphne just gapes at Anthony.

"You're . . . those pops upstairs? Those were _you_?"

Anthony grins smugly.

"I wouldn't have thought it possible from you." She regards him. "I mean, the blue blood . . . poncey attitude . . . rather weak constitution—"

Anthony steps on her foot.

"_Ow! Fuck_ Goldstein—!"

"_Sorry_," he hisses, annoyed. "My _weak_ constitution had a momentary fit!"

She glares at him, and then she smiles, almost wickedly, her eyes flickering to the stairs.

* * *

The feeling of a boy surrounding her is not foreign to her. Her physical relationships with the wizards in her House have probably contributed to the chilled relationships with her Housemates.

Among other things . . .

But they are not at Hogwarts, and to be enveloped by a boy in her own bed is something entirely different.

It is warm. And since it's Michael and not a pure-blood, forbidden.

Daphne still wears her dress robes, the jewels attached to her top and the gems on her necklace pressing into her skin as Michael pulls her closer to him. He kisses her neck and his hands fan out over her back.

"_Nice_ . . ." she barely whispers.

She feels him smile into her skin. He laughs. Michael moves his head to the top part of her chest and he kisses just beneath the small dip of her neck. She doesn't mean to arch her back as his head continues its downward trajectory, but it's a reflex to the warmth and the sensations as his lips touch her chest.

"Enjoying this?" His voice is muffled.

Daphne breathes out. As if he just _knows_, and as if he can read her so well, Michael moves his hands from her back. She falls onto her bed. He begins pulling her dress up, running his hands up the outside of her thighs and making straight for her knickers.

"What," she pants, "in the world are you doing, Corner?" She looks down at him and she's trying to catch her breath.

Michael gives her a very cocky smile. "Well, I simply wanted to try something. If you don't mind."

Daphne grins and snorts at him with a little incredulity. "Before we ever met, you were Mister 'Barely-Score-Through-The-Center-Hoop'! Now, you're Mister, 'I'm-Going-For-Your-Knickers'?"

Michael laughs, and his head falls onto her belly. "Am I being too forward?"

Her face falls slightly. Michael intrigues her, and she can see an odd, compelling mix of innocence and desire for her. She wants to play a game with him, to see exactly how far he'll want to take it.

Something tells her he would let himself go as far as he humanely can.

"No, Michael. You're not." She reaches for her wand and casts several privacy charms because the ball should still be going strong downstairs. She kneels on her bed.

"What do you want to do?"

She attempts to sound both disinterested and alluring, as if this were a casual fling; inside, though she'd never say, she is growing more and more nervous, more and more . . . _something_ that she doesn't quite know.

But whatever _it_ is, it makes her face redden and it makes her lose her breath.

Michael looks at her, but he doesn't say a word.

"What?"

"J-just . . . you."

She peers at him curiously and smiles at him with a hint of dubiousness. "What do you mean, _me_?"

Michael lifts his brows and lets out a little breath. "You're beautiful, y'know?" His hand sweeps down her body. "In these robes. I couldn't tell you earlier, what with all the snogging."

Her face falls. "_Beautiful_?" She feels a frown developing. This is not something she signed up for.

Michael chuckles. "You look like you've never heard that before."

Daphne does not admit to him that _that_ word is usually reserved for Astoria, as she is the one who many of the young wizards flock to. Not to her.

_Never_ to _her_, unless she gives them something in return.

She furrows her brows. She would prefer to keep this whole arrangement purely in the physical realm; she's starting to dread where Corner is taking this—

This would be much easier if he would simply shut up.

Her lips crash into his and she pulls his body to her. They fall back into her bed. And when he tries to speak again, she brings her arms down and unbuckles his trousers so she can slide her hands inside.


	9. ix: ruin

**A/N: **Rated T for some language and intense snogging, but not physically graphic enough to necessitate an R rating. Crossposted on my LJ for the Harry Potter Rare Pairs Community. Chapters 8 through 13 will be told from Daphne's POV.

* * *

**ix. ruin**

Daphne decides the best way to deal with this pesky Michael Corner situation that's quickly worming its way into her system is to go ahead and just fuck him.

_That will stop this!_

So when they return after Christmas, she pulls him into an empty classroom and snogs him until neither can breathe.

Their hands are everywhere — feeling, rubbing, and stroking each other. He sits on a bench and leans against a desk. She sits on top of his lap, her shirt undone and she moans as his hands cup her breasts. He kisses and nibbles and sucks at each side of her neck and she responds by moving her hands down to touch him, knowing that he likes a slow and purposeful rhythm.

He intensifies the efforts on her chest and her legs wrap around him. Eventually, somehow, some way, they find themselves on the floor, still tangled in each other.

She smiles into his soft brown hair; he finally knows how a bloke goes about properly touching a girl. She continues to touch him as well. It's something he has never done before he met her. She feels a little rush — no, a _great_ rush! — knowing that she is the first to stroke him like she does, even after a couple of girlfriends; she has broken through to the other side and pulled him right through with her.

Currently, they're both out of breath and there's a sudden chill as she pulls her lips from him. So she keeps a distance of one centimeter between his mouth and her mouth and she feels his breath on her face.

"Do you want to shag me, Michael?"

Unexpectedly, his face falls. "Wh-what?" And in the few moments that pass, no smile emerges on his face, no laugh or smirk. He's frozen in his expression of disbelief and . . . _something_ else—

"_What_?" he says one more time, and his face is clearly upset.

This is not what Daphne expects. She props herself up on her elbows and stares right back at him. "Well, it seems to be the natural progression, y'know . . . from snogging to hands, and then to fingers. We were probably going to get to mouths at some point—"

He scrambles backwards and his eyes are cold — frighteningly cold.

She remains as impassive as ever. "You don't want to?"

Michael narrows his eyes. "I know I don't _feel_ ready. It's too . . . _shite_!" He huffs as he stands up and opens his trousers, but only to tuck his shirt back in.

"What are you do—"

He runs a hand through his hair. "Why the hell're you rushing this," he waves a finger between them. "Where's the fire? Why do we have to go from A to B all the way to Z?"

This shakes Daphne up and it throws her off her game, which she knows _he_ knows. It pisses her off, and it's more than a little annoying that her first "relationship" outside of Slytherin has to be this boy who wants to talk and relate to her, when all she wants is a simple shag.

"And why," she spits back, her eyes narrow, "does it have to be anything more?"

Michael's face hardens from mere agitation to cold stone.

"_Repeat_ – _that_," his voice is low and dangerous.

Daphne's breathing trembles, but she says it again anyways. Because . . . well, it's already out there, and it won't make a bit of difference to take it back.

"Why does it have to be anything more?"

He looks at her . . . just _looks_ at her. Mouth slightly open, hands closing, eyes hard. But he doesn't say a word.

Neither does she. She stares at him with expectation—

Michael picks up his things, throws his bag over his shoulder, and walks towards the door.

Just as he's about to turn the knob, he turns around.

"You know something?" His voice is even in tone. "I liked you so much better when we talked. When you actually said things to me." He keeps his mouth open, as if he wants to say more, but he walks out the door instead, shutting it behind him.

Daphne looks at door for two minutes (almost exactly to the second), and without tears or any emotion, she buttons her shirt up and gathers her things before she leaves the room.


	10. x: without a smile

**A/N: **Rated T for some language. I own nothing. Parts 8 through 13 will be told from Daphne's POV. Thank you to all who have had this story on alerts and who have favorited and reviewed it. I really appreciate your feedback, and I'm hopelessly behind replying to each and every one of you. But thanks, and these updates are for you.

* * *

**x. without a smile**

Daphne feels no joy.

_Look at him!_

She sits alone at the table, stabbing a sausage with her fork. Multiple times. The meat just rolls away.

_With Lisa "Dung-breath" Turpin!_

She wonders if she could make Little Miss Fire-crotch's hair fall out and make her teeth green and rotten.

Daphne takes a huge bite out of her sausage, watching Lisa laugh at something funny Michael and Terry has just said, ignoring the sensation of her stomach plummeting out of her body as Lisa touches Michael's shoulder and arm . . . _again_!

She suppresses a smile when Michael pulls away from her.

"She's a troll, isn't she?"

Daphne's brow creases as she looks over to her right. "Astoria? What—"

Her younger and far more graceful sister flaps at her expression dismissively. "I know, I know. I don't normally talk to you at school. I'm only doing this because you've been such a depressing sight the past few weeks." She reaches over for an apple and rubs it between her hands, making it shiny. "You look pathetic, Daphne!"

She snorts. "Thanks for the pep talk."

The younger girl rolls her eyes in a lazy manner, but she focuses on her sister, peering closely at her face. "How long were you seeing him?"

Daphne clenches her jaw. "Since November. We stopped talking a few weeks ago."

When she hears no response, Daphne looks over to Astoria, and meets her pitying eyes.

"What, _Asti_? What the bloody hell do you want?"

Astoria sighs. "Well . . . although you could do with a decent wash, soap and numerous Glamour Charms—"

Daphne glares at her. She plows on.

"I don't . . . well," Astoria lets out a sigh. "I don't want you to be alone. Nor do I think it's a good idea."

Daphne narrows her eyes at her sister. "You think I'd do something?"

Astoria looks at her horrified. "No! Absolutely not, Daphne . . . I simply wanted to be here if you needed to talk to me about him. I know you don't have friends in Slytherin—"

"So this is some sort of _pity_ _party_?!" Daphne doesn't mean to, but she's shouting at her sister and slamming her plate on the table, causing her bread and meat to fly across the table. "Thanks, Astoria . . . but _no thanks_!"

Astoria has an absolutely horrified expression on her face and Daphne's panting again. She stands up and makes to walk out of the Great Hall, but not before she spies Michael watching her, Lisa Turpin's hand on his.

She sucks in a breath and tries to look as uncaring about Michael as she can, but she's afraid it's of no use. She flies out of the Great Hall before anyone can see her cry.

* * *

Daphne sits in the Slytherin common room, desperately trying to keep her mind on her Potions essay. Not that it'll make any difference; it's clearly that putrid Potter, Gryffindor's Golden Boy who has caught Slughorn's eye—

_Maybe a little extra-curricular "tutoring", eh?_

And her Defense lessons have not been going well.

_It would do you better, Miss Greengrass, if you came back down to earth and quit walking with your head in the clouds. _

_Snape, that magnificent bastard, would once again find favor in your talents if you could just bloody focus!_

It's the first of February. Apparition lessons were already rough going, what with Daphne having issues with cackling, horse-like laughter of Lisa Turpin, throwing herself on top of Michael Corner in a not-too subtle attempt to get into his pants.

The emotions that stirred within Daphne as she watched several graceless guffaws escape from "Turnip-Head" had caused her to completely lose her focus on her intended destination of the wooden hoop, much less her determination to actually succeed with Apparition, or her deliberation to perform the maneuver precisely.

Her head falls to the table. She is at her wits end, because the only thing that she can think about, even as she tries to memorize the numerous ingredients for Amortensia, all she can see is that bint's head trying to push it's way closer . . . and closer to Michael . . .

"Dammit! Fuck! _Fuck_! Fuckity-fuck-fuck!"

She violently kicks the chair that's in front of her at the table; it tumbles to the floor.

"Now what did that precious piece of furniture ever do to you?"

Daphne purses her lips together. It is Astoria, once again meddling into affairs that she should just keep her pert little nose out of.

"Not now," Daphne mutters. "Can't you see I'm studying?"

Since first coming to Hogwarts, Astoria has made it her own personal mission to do the exact opposite of everything Daphne says or does. Today is no exception. She picks up the chair that Daphne had just kicked over and sits down in it. She places her hands in front of her in prim fashion and she blinks twice before she opens her mouth.

"Just talk to him."

"Who?"

 Astoria draws in an exasperated breath. "This Michael Corner fellow, Daphne. Really . . . all this fuss for some poor little Ravenclaw with no money and no proper pure-blood family—"

Daphne slaps her hand on the table. "Astoria, please . . . tell me something."

The younger girl raises an immaculately curved eyebrow.

Daphne's face softens, and she's about to ask her one question, when a whole different one slips out from her mouth. "Why?"

Astoria is clearly confused.

"Why, or maybe I should ask how? How did you get like this?" Daphne regards her with a sad, pained expression. "Remember when we would go play in that little meadow close to our house? You would say that you didn't care whom you fell in love with . . . that you'd marry the most dashing man that you'd ever meet. And that you didn't care if he was Muggle or Muggle-born—?"

Astoria gives a little start. "This isn't about me . . ."

"I still want you to think about my question. Why? How?" She shakes her head. "When did you stop not giving a shit about all this pure-blood nonsense? Why does it matter to you now?"

Astoria falls back in her chair. She clearly does not want to answer these questions.

"Does it bother you, these expectations? Doesn't our parents' repulsion for all things Muggle or Muggle-born disturb you?"

Astoria's face shows no emotion. "It's just better like this, Daphne."

"But _how_, though. How is what they think right? Lucius Malfoy's in Azkaban. And have you seen Draco lately? He's looks like something a dragon hacked up out of its lung!"

"Well, wouldn't you be upset too if Father was surrounded by Dementors, day in and day out?" Astoria spits back at her. She relaxes after a few moments. ""It . . . just . . . _is_ . . ." Her voice drifts away.

Daphne looks at her with a mildly sad expression. "You just don't seem happy. Even when you're talking with a prat like Blaise—"

"If I remember correctly, you did more than just talk with Blaise last year." She leans forward and points to her ear. "I do still hear things, even if you don't tell me yourself."

Daphne dismisses her with a wave. "Are you going to be happy yourself? I mean, you love ice cream, and you wouldn't be able to limit your horizons to only one flavor when there's such an amazing variety out there."

Astoria squares her jaw. "But when that ice cream is dangerous to eat—"

"_Dangerous_?"

Astoria nods. "When it becomes harder and harder to find those different flavors of ice cream and suddenly, the maker starts pulling certain ones off the shelves because he thinks they're all wrong—"

Daphne blinks. "You're adopting our parents' views on things because of everything that's going on right now?"

Her sister says nothing in direct response. However, she leans forward again. "It's easier like this. It started with that murderer Black who terrorized the school my first year, to that Hufflepuff dying my second." She shakes her head. "And all that stuff about Potter in the papers . . . I think it's better to be safe."

"Mother and Father are not right, though . . . not right at all about their views—"

"But they'll stay out of the war, and we'll not be targeted because we're pure-bloods who'll fall in line with _them_."

Daphne regards Astoria's face carefully this time, and she finally notices the pain in her sister's eyes.

"However," Astoria stands up, "I'm not you. So, do what you feel you need to. I won't tell them." She nods and leaves.

And as Daphne watches her walk away, she pulls out a blank parchment and writes.

"_Michael — meet me in the Astronomy Tower tomorrow after dinner_."


	11. xi: that's a bit of a disappointment

**A/N: **I own nothing. Parts 8 through 13 will be told from Daphne's POV. For the Harry Potter Rare Pair Shorts community on LJ.

-------------------------------------------------

**xi. that's a bit of a disappointment**

Daphne Greengrass hates waiting for others, but that is exactly what she is doing right now. Waiting.

_For a boy!_

_You're pathetic!_

She taps her foot on the floor and beats her wand against her palm. The sparks from the tip grow more and more intense, matched only by her impatience—

The door opens, and Daphne feels her heart lift.

Michael Corner peaks his head through the doorway. "Daphne?" he whispers.

"I'm here." Her voice is deceptively calm. He comes inside the classroom and shuts the door behind him. He shifts his book bag and looks at her.

"You wanted to see me?"

Daphne suddenly blurts out. "What's going on with you and Turnip-Head?"

He gapes at her. "Turnip-Head?"

"Yeah. You. That bloody Turnip bird." She wiggles her fingers between them. "Anything I need to know about?"

Michael sets his book bag on the floor, he leans against a cabinet and blinks at her. "Are you referring to Lisa _Turpin_?" There's a horrible, knowing smirk emerging on his face.  

"I do not know a _Lisa Turpin_. I only know a 'Turnip'!"

"Hah!" Michael pushes off the furniture. "Sweet Rowena's Knickers!" He points a finger at her. "You're jealous!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

She's fuming and she knows she's turning red, but she can't say whether it's because she's angry that she's shown her hand too soon or because she's embarrassed that he—

_Oh, of course it's bloody obvious you're jealous!_

Daphne grunts. "Fine! All right. I am jealous."

She looks at him. He's smiling a little, but he's no longer laughing. "Okay. Well there's nothing going on with," he smirks, "'Turnip'. Terry says she's had a crush on me for a while or something, but I'm not interested. But I thought that you didn't want anything more with me than snogging." He peers at her with a very sharp gaze. "You really weren't in it for anything but a shag, right?" 

She starts a little at his unexpected bluntness. She fiddles with her wand, a nervous habit when she's not quite sure about the next thing she wants to say. "Wh- . . . um, what were you in this for?"

Michael looks at her with softer, steadier eyes. "I just really like you."

His choice of words piques her interest. "'Like'? You still _like_ me?"

"I still like you." He shrugs and nods. "For some reason, I can't shake the feeling that you actually do like me, and, you're not actually biding your time waiting for another bloke to come along."

Daphne cocks her head at this and gives him a funny look. "Is that what it was like with Weasley and Chang?"

He furrows his brow. "Well . . . kind of. With Ginny, even though she was fun, she always talked about Harry Potter. With Cho, it was—"

Daphne winces. "Cedric Diggory."

"_And_ Harry," he chuckles humorlessly. "I mean, how do you compete with a ghost and The Chosen One? Plus," he bites his cheek, "Ginny had all of her brothers and she idolized each one in her own way. Kind of gives a fellow a bit of a complex, y'know?" And he mumbles the rest. "When he's not as good as they are . . ."

Daphne realizes she really can't look at him anymore. Instead, she keeps her eyes focused on some point past his shoulder.

_Tell him!_

"I do like you." She shuts her eyes. "I j-just—" Her breath stops. "I've never, er . . . done _this_."

"'This'?"

"_This! W_h-where . . . well," she throws her had up, gesturing towards him, "someone's interested in just talking a-and not just about all that 'other stuff'."

Michael has an oddly disbelieving look on his face. "Really?"

Daphne nods. "I've told you before. I push things. I go too far sometimes. I do things without thinking. And I pushed you too far, I know now." She shakes her head. "I-I just thought it'd be easier to have, er . . . _that_ type of relationship with you. Rather than—"

"Rather than actually talk to someone? Get to know them?"

Daphne nods again. "I'm not used to someone telling me I'm pretty—"

"I actually said you were _beautiful_. At your Christmas party."

Daphne smiles at him awkwardly. She also blushes. "So, your expectations for, um . . . us were — I mean _are_ a bit different than mine." Her voice peters off, and she's nervous now.

"Daphne?"

She looks at him.

"What do you want to see happen? With us?"

She blinks for a very long time, because she is really and truly scared about admitting what's been stirring around in her head and chest ever since she met this boy.

She really likes him, in any possible sense that a teenage witch can.

"I like you."

A smile slowly winds across his face.

"And you said you liked me too, right?" She asks him, a little less sure than before.

He nods.

"Well," she continues "maybe we should try this out. I guess I've liked you since the beginning of this year, when you were flirting with me before Arithmancy—"

"I beg your pardon," he says with fake indignation. "I did _not_ flirt with you!"

She snorts. "You very much did!"

He walks towards her. She feels her face coloring. "I'd be quite upset if you--" She is shaking because he's now inches from her. "If you hadn't been flirting with me." Her voice reveals her nerves, her fear.

"I might not have thought I was back then, but," he shrugs and doesn't take his eyes off of her, "I'll cave in and say I was. And that I meant to."

Daphne takes a breath, and just before Michael leans forwards to kiss her, she stops him. "M-my sister said something to me yesterday."

He hovers for a moment, and she can feel his breath tickling his face. "What?" There's a barely contained note of discontent in not being able to finish the trajectory of his motion.

"She and I talked a-about everything going on out there. The war. The decisions she's made." She looks down at the ground and her brow creases in a struggle to keep her emotions in check. "She's scared, you know. So she clings to what she thinks will keep her safe. And right now, that's what our parents — our lovely, prejudiced parents — deem is right."

"Pure-bloods are best. That's what you mean?"

"Yes." There's sadness in her voice and she keeps her eyes on Michael.

He tips her head up with a finger and peers closely at her face. "So, what are you clinging to?"

Daphne realizes she can't answer that. Not just yet.


	12. xii i want a clearer picture

**A/N: **For Live Journal's Rare Pair Shorts community. These characters are property of J.K. Rowling.

* * *

**xii. i want a clearer picture**

Spring feels good for Daphne. She and Michael have resumed their relationship.

But, this time, it's different.

She doesn't feel impatient about the physical aspect when they are alone anymore, nor does she prevent herself to feel whatever it is she feels for him. She starts to let _it_ happen, and, for the first time, she can be herself with him.

They sit on a bench outside on a lovely day in late April. They're enjoying the sunlight on their faces and taking a break from studying. Their sides touch; every so often, their fingers dance close to each other, hidden beneath crossed arms and robes.

She smiles shyly when they touch; the contact sends tingles up her arm.

"What are your plans for the holidays?"

Michael stretches out. "Well, depending on . . ." he swirls his hand around, "you know—"

She does. As beautiful as the day is, the brightness of the sun, the blueness of the sky, nothing is clear. The attacks outside of the castle are getting worse and worse. Her family tells her that it's to be expected, because—

"—_to once again rise to the top of the wizarding world, some blood will have to be shed, some sacrifices will be made_," Her father had finished with the sentiment:

"_All for the greater good_."

She suppresses a shudder as he continues talking.

"Terry and I might spend some time with Tony. His family's got a nicer house than ours."

"I figured. My family did invite him to their little Christmas ball."

She notices Michael's face fall a little bit. "My family's also been talking about moving away."

Daphne's head flips around so quick she gets a crick in her neck. "What?" She ignores the fact that she is quite sore.

"They might go abroad."

She sucks in a breath. "Because of . . ."

"The war." He looks off into the distance with a sad expression and she wants to reach out to comfort him, but she stops herself. There are a lot of students around them, and public displays of affection between a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw feels not quite right.

But it is different when they are alone.

"My mum," he continues, "isn't in the best health, you know? And my dad thinks it might be best if they can get to the countryside. And," he shrugs, "away from all the stress with the increasing violence."

Daphne nods. "I heard about that boy who was forced to kill his family." She shivers.

Michael peers oddly at her.

"What?"

"I'm just trying to figure you out."

"We've known each other for almost an entire year, and you still haven't figured me out?"

"I'm trying to see the Slytherin in you."

Daphne stares at him. "The _Slytherin_ in me?" She can't figure out whether to be offended or not.

Michael counts with his fingers. "You don't have a problem with Muggle-borns. You abhor violence against them. You avoid the darker elements in your house—"

"I don't like violent thugs, which is what I would classify approximately three-quarters of our house. And as for hating Muggle-borns," Daphne crosses her arms and turns to face him head on. "Do you remember our first-year Sorting song?" 

He shakes his head. Daphne cannot help but feel her temperature rise.

"_Or perhaps in Slytherin, you'll make your real friends. Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends_." She sings with near-perfect precision. "That's all the Sorting Hat ever sang to describe Slytherin. Nothing in there about having to hate Muggles or Muggle-borns, is there?"

Michael blushes.

"I don't get along with my family. I don't agree with them about Muggle-borns and all that rot. So I don't agree with that stuff here either. But in case you were wondering," she holds up her hand and starts counting things off for him. "I'm bloody smart. I work damn hard in my classes because it's my deepest desire to teach right here at Hogwarts. And . . . " She's embarrassed to admit it, but he wanted to see the Slytherin side of her.

He has already seen it, but she'll remind him.

"I see a bloke I want, I use whatever's at my disposal to get him."

Michael flinches. "You mean—?"

She nods and cuts him off. "_Whatever_ – _means_. A-and . . . before you, it was all for fun, maybe to prove that I was the one in control. Nothing was ever meant to be serious. I just . . ." she gestures to him. "I didn't know I wanted something _different_."

"I think you had me on our first day back."

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Couldn't resist my feminine wiles, huh?"

He rolls his eyes. "Or your _radiant_ personality."

"_You_ needed my unique spark to set fire to your heart."

Michael laughs and shakes his head. Daphne does the same before she speaks again. "I've never actually liked someone and I almost messed it up because I pushed it too far."

Michael smiles at her, but it's a little sad.

"Are you pitying me—?"

"No, I'm not, Daphne." His voice is calm and direct. "It's just . . . I-I'm glad that I was different."

"You are?"

"I am."

A smile grows on her face. "To the Astronomy Tower then?"

He smiles back as they stand up.

* * *

_This is not happening_.

"I want to stress to all of you," Professor Slughorn wrings his hands, staring at the Slytherin common room with sad, scared eyes, "we don't know all of the details of the Headmaster's death."

Daphne can hardly believe it. She looks around in a daze. There are groups of Slytherins who appear shocked, but not saddened, a few who look indifferent, tired, and annoyed that they got out of bed for this—

And then there's Crabbe and Goyle, Baddock and Pritchard, who are smirking and laughing.

She feels a hand slide into hers. It is Astoria's. Daphne watches her sister, and Astoria squeezes her hand and smiles.

Daphne blinks and turns back to listen to Horace Slughorn, apparently the new Head of Slytherin House. He has called on a student — Damien Bowles — who has just asked about Snape.

" . . . do not have any further information at this time about his or Mr. Malfoy's whereabouts."

"What about our families? Are we being sent home? Is Hogwarts closing for the term?"

"Mister McNaughton," Slughorn addresses the arrogant fifth-year, "your parents are free to withdraw you from the remainder of term. Acting Headmistress Minerva McGonagall will be making the final decisions tonight and will make the announcement tomorrow regarding the status of Hogwarts."

There is more, but Daphne does not hear it. Slughorn dismisses them and they go back to their dormitories. Astoria tugs on Daphne's hand and beckons her to follow, which she does.

The Entrance Hall is full, but Daphne cowers and doesn't make eye contact with anyone; for some reason, she needs only her sister right at this moment. She doesn't think she can handle being around anyone else.

The door is open to the outside, and Astoria and Daphne find seats on benches near the castle.

"I expect Hera any minute," Astoria says softly.

"Are you okay, Asti?"

Her sister turns and faces her. "I don't know." She shakes her head very sadly. "I didn't know the Headmaster, but anytime anyone dies it's sad, isn't it?"

Daphne nods. "I'm in shock, personally."

Astoria looks at her. "Will _he_ be sad?"

"If you mean Michael," she nods, "yeah. He will be—"

A high-pitched cry sails through the air. Astoria and Daphne both reach out as Hera, the Greengrass' eagle owl, swoops down with two notes tied to her legs.

"Thankfully," Astoria says, reaching into her pockets, "I came prepared." Astoria hands Daphne part of a treat, which Daphne accepts, and both girls feed and pet the owl. Daphne holds Hera as her sister unfolds her note . . . and she nods as she reads it.

"Tomorrow morning. Possibly before breakfast."

Daphne breaths heavily.

"So, you'll have to send him a message that you'll meet him early in the morning."

She stares at Astoria in disbelief. "Asti . . . "

Her sister holds out her Self-Inking Quill. "You should use the same note. That way, he'll know you're telling him the truth about our parents coming for us."

"Astoria—"

She smiles at her big sister and pets under the bird's beak with her finger. "Do it quickly. Hera should be getting back soon."

Daphne watches her, hardly believing that Astoria could understand, and she unrolls the note and begins writing his name.


	13. xiii too much information

**A/N: **I own nothing. NOW COMPLETE!

* * *

**xiii. too much information **

"Er, h-hi." Daphne says shakily.

Michael walks and stands mere inches away from her. "I got your message." He smiles a little, but it's rather awkward. "You don't have long, do you?"

She shakes her head. "They'll be here at half past eight. How are you doing?"

He shrugs. "It's . . . it's unbelievable. I mean, one minute Dumbledore's here, and the next, he's . . . he's just _gone_, you know?" He regards her carefully. "They told us Snape ran."

Daphne pulls in her lips. "Slughorn's our new Head of House, but he's not saying anything about what happened with Snape or Malfoy or where in the world they could be, or—"

She doesn't want to say it, because, despite everything, Snape was her favorite teacher, whether it was Potions or Defense Against Dark Arts, and ever since Slughorn told them about what had happened at the Astronomy Tower last night, a horrible, unspeakable thought kept trying to push through from the back of her head—

"You have to admit," he interrupts her thinking, "that you don't have to be a Ravenclaw to reckon Snape was involved. And I've also heard rumors that Malfoy had something to do with it as well."

She stares at him and there's a tug-of-war going on inside her head. She wants to tell him: "_Absolutely! They were involved! They had to have been involved! You should've seen Pansy and Crabbe and Goyle last night. . . . they're covering for both those bastards!_"

But the other part can't help but think that Michael jumps to that conclusion because Snape and Malfoy are Slytherins, and, well . . . so is she. And what the hell has their entire _thing_ been about if it wasn't about realizing that some Ravenclaws aren't all about books and Slytherins aren't all about bloody _evil_?!

Despite her better judgment, and because her nerves are frayed and she's tired and upset, Daphne allows the latter to override her instincts—

"Quick to point your wand at the 'guilty parties', aren't you? So long as they're in Slytherin, right?"

"Oh, come off it, Daphne! It's not a _Slytherin_ thing. It's a common-sense thing. You have to see that there's something wrong, something suspicious about all of this. Dumbledore falls off the Astronomy Tower to his death . . . a fight that nearly destroys said tower . . . and now, Snape and Malfoy are nowhere to be seen the morning after."

She glares, trying to stay angry, but she knows he's right, and she's loathing that bloody Sorting Hat for putting her in her House, even though most generations of Greengrasses have been predominately Slytherin themselves.

Her body, which had been tense and tight before, falls and she's leaning against the stone wall of the bottom floor of the West Tower. "I know, I know. It's just making me wish I hadn't been sorted into my own House." Daphne turns a pair of desperate, confused eyes towards Michael. "I wasn't close to the Headmaster, but I feel like the only Slytherin who's hoping that _none_ of us had anything to do with his death. Which," she gestures weakly, "is looking increasingly likely."

Michael watches her for one more minute and he approaches her with his arms outstretched, pulling her to him.

She softens and allows the embrace.

"It's going to get worse from here, you know?"

He nods, his chin gently tapping her head. "I know." He pulls away from her after a bit. "Can I kiss you goodbye?"

Daphne stops her chin from quivering and, with as much dignity as she can muster, she nods. "You may," she responds with a soft voice.

And he does.

* * *

It is the night before Dumbledore's funeral. Daphne has been gone for almost two full days. Michael sits on his bed, his trunk packed and resting at his feet.  

He feels his bed dip and he looks behind him . . .

A bottle of MacGillicuddy's Special Reserve Firewhiskey greets him centimetres from his face.

"Drink."

Michael takes the bottle from Terry Boot's generous hand and he looks at his friends. Terry's reclining lengthwise on the bed, and Anthony Goldstein's sitting against the bedpost close to the footrest. Terry takes his drinks directly from the bottle, but Anthony offers Michael his glass.

Michael shakes his head, and instead, swigs quite a mouthful.

"_C-cor-cack_!" Michael hacks a bit as the liquid burns down his throat. "Blimey!" he exclaims and his friends laugh at his lack of composure. "_Shit_! That cuts right through you."

Terry looks at him. "This isn't the cheap stuff, mate. If you don't like it, you've got the palate of a dead squid."

The three wizards sit in silence for a few moments. It's Anthony who breaks the quiet first.

"Can't believe that he's gone, you know? It . . . it hasn't sunk in yet."

"Know what you mean." Terry takes another swig. "Y'know what they always said about him?" He passes the bottle back to Michael, who takes it with a little hesitation. "He was the only wizard that You-Know-Who was scared of."

"Not just You-Know-Who." Anthony tips his glass back. "He beat Grindelwald! Who knows what'll happen now."

Michael gives him a sideways glance as he sips from the bottle. "What are you saying, Tony?"

"I'm saying that . . ." his eyes shift between them, "it may be open season."

Michael doesn't want to hear or think about this, but Dumbledore's death has left a gaping chasm in Hogwarts.

Their whole world.

"What do you think'll happen?" Michael drinks, and he realizes that the firewhiskey's going down easier with each mouthful.

Anthony shrugs. "I think McGonagall 'll be a shoo-in for Headmistress. Although I'd love to see Flitwick get it." He raises his glass to his friends.

"Cheers!" Michael raises the bottle and Terry raises his hand. After he takes one more drink, he gives Terry the firewhiskey. He pours Anthony a little more before taking a swig himself.

"T'you . . . Flitwick too." Terry lifts the firewhiskey in a belated toast. "So, Mike, you gonna write her over the holiday?"

Michael sighs. "Yeah, but I'm not sure . . . she might not even get them. Her family's really—" He waves his hand next to his head.

"Crazy?" "Bat-shit insane?"

Anthony and Terry look at each other as they speak simultaneously. Michael snorts.

"Well, that and they're as prejudiced against non-pure-bloods as any of the worst here at Hogwarts."

Anthony nods. "My parents didn't want to associate with them, because there's been some questions about the elder Greengrass' finances—"

Michael furrows his brow. "What do you mean?"

"Even though the Greengrasses weren't actually involved in the First War against You-Know-Who, well," Anthony leans towards him, "there were rumors they were funneling money to support _them_."

Terry looks at him, aghast. "Who? Death Eaters?"

"No, Terry, ponies! Of course I mean Death Eaters!"

Michael looks down. "But she doesn't believe that. I-I mean, sh-she's never said anything bad about Muggle-borns to me." His voice sounds rather weak.

"Did you tell her about your mum?" Anthony asks. Terry sits silently, waiting for an answer.

"Er . . ." Michael realizes that he can't remember whether he ever told her he was born of a wizard and a Muggle-born. He thinks he may have, but it's getting lost in a sea of banter about classes, flirting in hushed voices, and snogging in private moments. Perhaps the exact words, "My mother's a Muggle-born," never passed through his lips, but he does hope that he dropped a hint here or there — if only because it meant that she was with him despite that fact.

"I dunno—" It's all he can manage.

Anthony looks at him and sighs. "Well, you know the both of you have a place with my family. No matter what."

Terry smirks. "Only because you'd cry yourself to sleep at night without us protectin' y'arse!"

Anthony kicks at him playfully. "Prat! Remember, which one of us has the Stunner that landed both of you on your arses?" He grins at them smugly.

Michael simply smiles and holds out his fist. "Thanks, mate."

Anthony taps Michael's fist. "You know the both of you can count on me."

"And me." Terry joins in.

And the three wizards spend the rest of the evening getting as pissed as possible off of Terry's last bottle of firewhiskey.

**Fin**.


End file.
